


After Midnight

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tone Geoff: The AU where the only thing Geoff loves more than bare-knuckles brawling and Elvis impersonating is Michael. </p><p>Through the flirting and gifts and favors, Geoff has been patient. He's accepted rejection after rejection from Michael, the young bartender. The stalemate has to have an end, though.</p><p>And it comes on Halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Modern Don Juan

**Author's Note:**

> "Tone Geoff" is an AU project that has been tumblr-exclusive up until the point. However, I've finally reached a point in the story where the format is too long to comfortably and sanely host on my blog. 
> 
> If you're not familiar with the AU, you will DEFINITELY want to visit [this post on my blog](http://horrificsmut.tumblr.com/post/109333449197/tone-geoff-au-masterpost) because there is nothing in this story that is designed to orient you to the universe or the timeline. 
> 
> This story comes after part 8 -- so if you'd only like to read up to that point, you'll be completely caught up. It's about 10.5 K of content that sets up to this story. 
> 
> If I actually bring this content over to AO3, I'll amend this introductory note so you know where to go to get oriented to the universe.

It’s not until Michael finds himself dressed up like Geoff that he understands the appeal of the whole dressing-like-a-brain-damaged-greaser thing.

The costume doesn't take much. A borrowed leather jacket, some rub-on knuckle tattoos he’d ordered online. Cheap hair paste from the grocery store and a nicely broken-in pair of probably-too-tight jeans from the thrift store. Instant Geoff costume.

Sure, Michael had tossed around plenty of other ideas for a Halloween costume -- but nothing else had quite the right balance of recognizability and personality. Michael just has his fingers crossed, hoping the bar patrons get the reference.

When he gives the costume a trial run in the apartment a week before Halloween, he can't help but think **_Damn, I look good_ , **the first time he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

Even in his late 20s, Michael is a little too baby-faced to pass for **_tough_** while wearing the getup. Geoff, on the other hand, has the kind of wrinkles and scars and worn-in tattoos needed to pull off the overall style – to take it from costume to actual street clothes. ( ** _And a left hook to match,_** Michael thinks, noting that it's been a few weeks at least since Geoff had really brawled in earnest behind the bar. Maybe Michael's presence, he thinks, is mellowing Geoff out. Or at least distracting him.)

\---

Jack had called a staff meeting the week before to talk about how the Halloween 2014 night shift would go down, and clearly the holiday was A Big Fucking Deal at the Night Library. Jack **_never_** called staff meetings.

“Lindsay and Michael, I want you two working the bar until close,” Jack had said, reading off of notes on a clipboard. “Matt and Jeremy -- you’ll bus and float. If I need you washing and serving soft drinks behind the bar, you ready for that?” The employees nod.

“We’ll be all-hands-on-deck that morning -- paid time of course. I’ll need your help decorating and getting everything ready,” Jack said. “So be prepared for a marathon of a day. Any questions?”

“Costumes or not, boss?” Lindsay had asked.

Jack had hitched an eyebrow at her.

“Fuck yes costumes,” Jack said. “Is that even a real question?"

When Jack had dismissed them, Michael lingered in the parking lot with Lindsay.

“Is this seriously such a big deal?” he’d asked. “Like, what the hell are we going to do with **_five_** of us on one shift?”

“Dude, it’s our biggest night of the year,” Lindsay said. “Plus -- with Halloween on a Friday this year? Shit, forget about it. It’s gonna be nuts.”

\---

True to his word, Jack puts them to work first thing on Halloween. It’s bizarre showing up to the bar in the morning, and Michael -- who has worked every weeknight that week -- wonders how the hell he’s going to make it through a triple shift.

Jeremy and Matt take the kitchen, Jack and Lindsay work on decorations, and Michael is left to scrub and organize behind the bar.

At 10, someone pushes through the front door. Michael’s stooped under the counter, doesn’t bother looking up, knowing Jack’ll send the person packing.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Jack says from atop a ladder somewhere.

“Not even for little ‘ol me?”

Michael almost knocks himself out, jerking upwards at the sound of the familiar voice and hitting his head hard on the underside of the bar.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Lindsay says from the base of the ladder.

“Just me?” Geoff says with an exaggerated lilt. “Lindsay Lou, my queen bee, you **_wound_** me.”

Michael finally stands, rubbing the back of his neck. Geoff has entered the dim bar and is already swaggering, dressed in a perfect replica of Michael's Halloween costume, holding a large carton of coffee in one hand and balancing a pink box in the other.

“Holy shit, are those donuts?” Lindsay asks.

“Dearest Lindsay, perceptive as always,” Geoff says.

Geoff just walks right by her though, making a beeline for Michael at the bar.

"You know it's weird," Michael says as Geoff approaches. "I don't think I've ever actually seen you in the morning before."

"Well I sincerely hope you take a shinin' to what you see," Geoff says, not missing a beat and setting the coffee and donuts down with a flourishing swoop and a raised eyebrow. "'Cause hopefully you'll be waking up to this smiling visage on the regular sometime in the near future, doll."

"Come the fuck on," Michael says, rolling his eyes.

"What?" Geoff says, feigning hurt.

"That's bad, even for **_you_** ," Michael says leaning across the bar.

"Can't blame a fool for tryin," Geoff says through a smile. "Ya hungry?"

"Half fucking starved, actually," Michael says – and by now, the rest of the crew is gathering around to see what Geoff's brought and the man steps back and away from the box. Jack pops the cardboard box open, releasing the scent of warmed sugar into the air – and every one of them circled around the food groans in pleasure at the smell.

The donuts are picture perfect – brightly-tinted glaze shining under the bar lights and just barely set. They're fat and flawless and for a moment, the bar staff just stands there gaping at them, no one willing to be the first to make a move.

"I call dibsies on the pink one," Lindsay says, finally before reaching in and plucking a sprinkled donut. And just like that, everyone is moving to grab donuts while Michael finds mugs behind the bar to start divvying out coffee. Once coffee and donuts have been passed out, the rest of the staff moves off for a break, thanking Geoff through full mouths.

Geoff takes a seat at the bar and Michael lifts the carton of coffee with raised eyebrows as if to ask **_you want some too?_** Geoff smiles and nods and Michael  fixes him a mug, pushing it across the bar to him.

"Thought you said you were hungry, Michael," Geoff says after the first sip, tilting his head towards the open, half-empty box.

"Yeah, I just – y'know, I wanted everyone to get the ones they wanted first," Michael says. "I'm not picky."

"The hell you're not," Geoff says immediately. "You're too nice is what you are. Leavin' everyone to get their favorite flavor. Shoulda guessed. You're sweet as sugar, you know that?"

"Yeah right," Michael says through a frown. He reaches out to pick out a donut that might be salted caramel – a mellow brown glaze sitting on a vanilla donut, topped with white crystals that could be big pieces of sugar as easily as they could be salt. 

"You're the nice one, bringing in food. How'd you even know we'd be here this morning?"

"On Halloween?" Geoff asks. "Oh I had a strong inkling the Night Library'd be gettin' put in ship shape first thing in the morning."

"So is it gonna be crazy here tonight or what?"

"It'll be a howlin' bash, I can tell you that much, darlin," Geoff says, taking a long drag from his coffee. He stares at the cup in his tattooed hands for a long minute before looking up at Michael hopefully. "Never had a plain cup of coffee at a bar before."

"Is that your subtle way of asking me to give you free whiskey at 10 in the goddamn morning?" Michael asks.

"Certainly wouldn't turn my nose up at it," Geoff says, smirking. He shakes his head. "You **_do_** know me too well, doll."

Michael stares Geoff down but the man's smile doesn't break and Michael is the first one to laugh. Michael retrieves a bottle from under the bar and tips a few generous splashes of bourbon into the mug of coffee.

"Hell of a way to start the day," Geoff says, toasting him.

And there **_is_** something about seeing Geoff in the morning that has Michael feeling a little off-kilter. The man shrugs out of his leather jacket – ludicrous in the Florida weather, even at the end of October – leaving him sitting in a thin white shirt, hands laced on the  bartop. He looks sleepier than usual and there's no grease in his hair yet, which looks as soft as it is messy.

As they make small talk, Michael can almost picture that this is what Geoff must look like when he wakes up at home, rolling out of bed.

Michael can almost picture Geoff waking up in Michael's apartment, drinking coffee out of Michael's mugs just like this, pulling on an undershirt, making the same small talk but maybe a little sleepier, maybe their hands resting together on the table or legs tangling underneath it. 

It wouldn't be bad, Michael realizes. Not even a little bit. Spending mornings with Geoff.

"So you gonna try it out or what?" Geoff asks – and for an odd moment, Michael jumps to the conclusion that Geoff has read his mind. But when he looks up at the man across the bar with a worried look, Geoff is just nodding at the donut in front of Michael, sitting untouched on a napkin.

"Shit," Michael says, "Yeah. Don't know where my head's at."

"Dream on, star-gazer," Geoff says. "Don't let me interrupt whatever nice little fantasy you got conjured up in that pretty head."

Michael frowns at him and takes a bite.

The donut is easily the best Michael's ever had – and he'd been right on the money about it being salted caramel. The pastry is still warm, with puffy, soft layers couched in a lightly-fried crust. The donut itself is almost savory, but the sweetness comes immediately from the glaze, a complex and barely-sticky caramel that gives away after a moment to the bite of the large salt crystals on top.

"Christ, Geoff," Michael says. "It's heaven."

"Now that's what I like to hear," Geoff says.

He watches Michael intently the way someone would watch a fine film or an opera: with intensity and a look of profound happiness bordering on reverence. And in spite of himself, the knowledge that he's being watched makes Michael bite and chew a little slower, makes him draw out the movements as he sucks the sheen of caramel glaze from his fingertips. 

Geoff, he realizes, really has a talent for bringing out the worst in him.

But the donut is so good that once he's swallowed the first bite, he can't put the damn thing down – and even with a slower pace, Michael makes it to his last bite quicker than he intended to, enjoying the play of different textures as he savors his last taste with an audible sigh.

"I needed that, I think," Michael says – and it's true: he hadn't eaten breakfast and he'd regretted that choice almost immediately. "It **_was_** really nice of you to bring this for us."

"Any excuse for a dalliance that includes botherin' you for a few ticks, sweetheart," Geoff says with a wink – but Michael won't let the point drop.

Because as Michael has let his defenses erode -- given in more and more to the idea that going on a date with Geoff is a simple inevitability, to the intrusive little fantasies about eating breakfast together and giving into the urge to kiss Geoff at every turn – Michael has found himself more and more ****bothered by something.

"You **_are_** really nice though, Geoff," Michael insists, trying to wind his was around to the topic he wants to discuss. "It's kind of confusing considering how many faces I've seen you almost break your hand on around back."

"If you don't think I'm bein' up front about my ulterior motives for a visit such as this, you might not be as sharp as I originally took you for, doll," Geoff says. "Not that that changes anything, mind you."

"I'm just waiting to figure out what your dark secret is," Michael says.

Geoff raises an eyebrow.

"I mean **_other_** than the fighting – " Michael adds.

Geoff raises his mug.

"And the drinking."

Geoff opens his mouth to say something –

"And the flirting," Michael interrupts. "I mean, like. What's your fuckin' character flaw. I don't get it. Nobody's this thoughtful and **_persistent_** and charming –" and Geoff beams at the compliment while Michael quickly moves on "— without having some weird… shitty secret."

Geoff shrugs.

"I'm an open book, Michael," Geoff says.

"You probably have, what, like ten kids somewhere or something, right?"

Geoff barks a laugh, shakes his head.

"Not a one," Geoff says.

"Twenty cats at home?"

"None 'a them, either," Geoff says.

"You probably take a cartful of groceries into the 10-items-or-less lane," Michael says.

Geoff snorts.

"I'm nothin' if not conscientious of the strict limitations on the Publix express lane," Geoff says. "Any other choice tidbits you'd like to know from my biography?"

"Geoff," Michael says seriously. "How long have you been single?"

"Well hell," Geoff says, looking at the ceiling and doing a quick mental calculation. "Ain't been short on first dates, but if you're diggin' for an Other who I'd call Significant, I'm goin' on four or five years now, I s'pose."

"So **_why_** are you single?" Michael demands.

"Guess I was waitin' on you to show up," Geoff says through a crooked smile.

"Yup, yeah, no," Michael says, resisting the urge to wag his finger at the other man. "See, that's where the 'open book' part stops. That's what worries me."

"Slow down there, kiddo," Geoff says, looking a little offended. "There wasn't anyone quite right who caught my eye and that's a fact."

"I find that hard to fucking believe, Geoff," Michael says.

"You want a numbered list of the attributes you just so happen to possess that I find endearing, darlin?" Geoff asks. "You give me a little time and I'll produce it – laminated and in triplicate if your heart so desires."

Michael sighs and gulps the tail end of his first cup of coffee. This is the realest conversation he's ever allowed himself to have with Geoff, and he still feels like he's getting nowhere.

"You sure it's not just 'cause I turn you down all the time, Geoff?" he asks, finally. 

Michael's heart is crashing against his chest – because he's finally put words to the thing that's been bothering the hell out of him now for weeks.

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind, doll," Geoff says easily.

"OK fine – but now that it's crossing your mind. Are you honestly sure that's not it?"

Geoff breaks eye contact then, screwing his mouth to one side as he thinks and examines the backs of his hands. He takes a moment – really considering it, Michael hopes. 

And then… the moment is too long, and Michael's heart is pounding harder because he's taking too long to answer and maybe, Michael thinks, maybe this **_is_** the only reason why Geoff's interest in him has been so sustained. Maybe it had simply never occurred to the man that the minute Michael says yes to a date, the magic spell Michael seems to have over Geoff will be broken and Michael will no longer have whatever allure he's held over the months. 

Maybe Geoff is sitting there realizing that in the end, Michael's resistance was the only reason why pursuing Michael had continued to be fun.

"Michael," Geoff says seriously, finally. He catches Michael with clear blue eyes and fixes him with a stare. "I can honestly admit that you turnin' me down is not among the list of reasons why I'd like to spend more time with you if you'd let me."

And even as Michael feels relieved, he doesn't entirely trust the statement – because could Geoff really know that until Michael says yes? Would Geoff lie to spare his feelings?

"If that fear's been gnawin' on you, babydoll, I do hope you can put it to rest once and for all," Geoff says.

"Yeah," Michael says after a minute, shaking his head even as he says yes. "Yeah, I'll try."

\---

Geoff makes his rounds, saying hello to everyone, receiving thanks for the food. Jeremy and Jack return to the bar to snatch up another donut and everyone takes another refill of coffee until the large carton is empty. 

"You've given me a new lease on life, Geoff Ramsey," Lindsay says, hanging on him a little, finishing up the last of a second donut.

"Shucks sugar, it's all in a day's work," he says with a grin. "'Sumin' I'll catch you cats tonight?" 

He slings a look at Michael – who's been silent since their conversation ended.

"You bet," Jack says, cutting in. "All hands on deck." 

"Me 'n the boys'll be back at eight sharp, then," Geoff says, still not taking his eyes off of Michael. "Gotta special set worked up."

\---

"Michael!" Lindsay scolds the minute Geoff is out the door. 

"What?" 

"You didn't even say goodbye to him," she says.

"Oh – I'm sure – I mean…" and he hadn't, and Lindsay pointing it out makes him feel instantly like an ass – like maybe he should run out and try to catch Geoff in the parking lot, at least give the man a smile and a goodbye. He deserved at least that.

Instead Michael stands there, working a rag over an already-clean mug and staring at the closed door. 

"Yeah, you mean you're rude is what you mean," Lindsay says, her voice less scolding now and more teasing. 

"I should've said goodbye," Michael admits, trying to put his hands on something more constructive to do.

"So are you just not into that whole scene or what?" she asks, pushing a broom into Michael's hands and propping back against the bar. 

"What the, like, retro scene?" Michael asks, grateful for something to do as he begins to sweep.

"The **_Geoff_** scene, specifically," she says, arms crossed. 

"I don't know," Michael says, dropping his eyes. "Are you into the Geoff scene?"

She snorts. 

"If I didn't have a girlfriend, I'd climb that like a tree," she says. "But he doesn't want **_me_** Michael, Jesus."

Michael just keeps sweeping.

"Nice diversion tactic, by the way," she says, rolling her eyes. "I can tell you like him. What's the big fuckin' deal, Michael?" 

Michael shrugs, working the broom's bristles into a corner. 

"You're worse than a middle schooler," Lindsay says. "If you like him, let him take you on a date already. Poor guy's been trying for… what, like, three months?" 

"Yeah, something like that," Michael admits. 

"I'd have given up on you by now," Lindsay says. "No offense. I don't have the type of self esteem to get shot down every week." 

"I don't shoot him down," Michael snaps.

"I mean you're nice as hell about it, Michael, but you **_always_** say no. Would you really mind a date with him that bad?" 

"I really… I don't know," Michael admits. "I don't really do romantic shit."

"But you admit kissing him would be nice," Lindsay says through a smile. 

"Fuck, Lindsay," Michael says. 

"Yes or no you want to kiss him Michael – I'm getting to the bottom of this shit, I'm tired of it," she says.

"Fuckin' hot seat," Michael says, shaking his head. "I didn't plan on getting interrogated today." 

"Nobody plans on getting interrogated," Lindsay says. "You've at least **_thought_** about kissing him, right?" 

It's been ages – eons – since Michael has confided in anyone about anything. Since he's had a friend his own age who was interested in his personal life, who he feels like he could trust. But Lindsay is standing there, smiling, face open and friendly, arms crossed over her chest. 

He can trust Lindsay. 

"I think about it every fucking Friday," Michael admits, immediately dropping his eyes and sweeping in the opposite direction as her face lights up. She must be able to sense his immediate discomfort with the admission – so she doesn’t squeal or prod him or tease him. 

"OK? So… go on a date!" she says. "And then you can decide if you should kiss him." 

Michael sighs hard. 

"I feel like a fucking moron," Michael says. "People I graduated high school with already have multiple kids and I'm standing here worried about kissing someone?" 

"I think it's precious," Lindsay says, defensively. 

"I don't want to disappoint him, Lindsay," he says before he can stop himself.

"How on **_earth_** would you do that, Michael?" Lindsay says. "He's borderline obsessed with you." 

"Which is terrifying," Michael shoots back. "I'm **_not_** anything special – why me?"

"I'm not getting into a compliment war with you," Lindsay says. 

"No, no – I know, that's not what I mean," Michael says. "I mean I'm fucking great, don't get me wrong – " and she puffs a laugh at that – "But I don't feel like Geoff knows me. And he likes me too much. What happens if I let him get to know me and he's… y'know. I'm disappointing?" 

"First off, you're not gonna be disappointing," Lindsay says. "And second, that's what dates are **_for_**."

"And if I suck at dates?" 

Lindsay sighs and he can tell she's getting frustrated with this line of questioning. She tries a new tactic.

"Michael… You've never just **_known_** when you met someone?" 

"Known…?"

"Like you talk to them for one minute and you just know, 'yeah, this is a person I could love,'" Lindsay says – as if that clears it up. 

"No," Michael says. "I haven't." 

"It happens, Michael," she says. "You don't have to know very much about someone sometimes… Not quite love at first sight, y'know, but something really close. I can't explain it. When I met Barbara I don't think she'd gotten five words out of her mouth before I was thinking, 'Goddamn, I wanna love you.'"

Michael considers that. It must be a good feeling to be so certain about someone. It's certainly not something he can relate to. 

"So maybe that's where he's coming from," Lindsay says. "Maybe he just **_knows_** he could love you if you'd let him." 

"I've never even told someone outside my family that I **_love_** them, Lindsay," Michael admits – and he can't meet her eyes, can't face the admission. 

Because this, really, is the worst secret he's got. This is the piece of Michael that makes him feel broken when Geoff asks him out, when he gets invited to weddings, when he watches movies about soul mates. It's the piece of himself he's scared of most – and the piece of himself that Michael knows (or he tells himself that he knows) Geoff will not be able to tolerate, in the end. 

And suddenly the broom is crashing to the floor because Lindsay is grabbing him, pulling him into a hug, squeezing him hard. 

"Lindsay – you don't –"

"Come on – it's not a race, dude," she says quietly, not relenting in the hug. "You worry too much, Michael. You don't have to have loved anybody to say yes to a date. And for the record? You **_are_** something special, and you deserve to have somebody love you if it's what you want." 

Michael puffs a laugh, slumping towards her now, no longer resisting. 

"Thanks Linds." 

She holds him out at arm's length then, finally releasing him. 

"This interrogation is over, I think," Lindsay says. 

"Thanks for sparing me the waterboard," Michael says, smiling.

"Sure," she says. "What're friends for?" 

Michael puffs a laugh.

"So are you gonna do it? Because you know he's gonna ask you on a date again tonight," Lindsay says. "It's fucking inevitable." 

"Yeah," Michael says quickly – before he can change his mind. "Yeah, yes. Why the fuck not. Fuck it." 

Lindsay smiles. 

"Geoff should pay me, honestly," she says, taking the broom from Michael and making her way to the other side of the bar. 

\---

Central Florida in the afternoon on Halloween is bright, clear, and feels nothing goddamned **_like_** Halloween. 

Yeah, everyone has carved pumpkins -- even at Michael’s apartment complex -- and a few of the jack-o-lanterns have even survived the insane heat without rotting. Yeah, every Publix, CVS, and Walgreens is goddamned drenched in black and orange. Yeah, everyone who had nothing better to do had gone to Halloween Horror Nights two or three or eighteen times by now. 

But still. It feels nothing like Halloween.

None of the trees have turned yet -- and everything is far too green for it to feel like fall. The temperatures barely drop down out of the 90s. It’s rained all month, turning mornings humid and breezeless. The tourists have all gone home for the season and it’s just Floridians: wrapping themselves in scarves and boots and cardigans because that's what fall is supposed to look like and walking as fast as they can in the heat from air-conditioned building to air-conditioned building.

Even the people who have lived here all their lives seem to sense that there’s something inherently wrong with the Florida weather. The calendar says fall but the landscape says **_endless goddamn summer_**. And it sucks.

Worse: it makes Michael homesick. 

And there’s something about the conversations he’s had that morning and something about seeing the college kids in their costumes as he gets closer to the UCF campus and something about the fucking sunshine that has Michael feeling very homesick for his family, for Jersey, for a place where nobody paid much attention to him and nobody asked him to make decisions that could hurt other people.

Jack has sent everyone home for a few hours to rest, grab lunch, put on costumes. Michael lives about 20 minutes away from the bar and he wishes he didn’t have to actually commute to get home but he doesn’t want to sit alone at the bar, either. 

Halfway through the drive, Michael realizes that he can’t stand NPR any more and he fishes around in the console of his car for a CD. His hand finds the “Million Dollar Quartet” CD that Geoff had burned for him and he doesn’t think too hard about it as he presses it into the disc slot. 

Jersey was so different. He bets it’s beautiful there right now -- the trees turning everything the same warm shades as a campfire as the landscape goes crisp and the air acquires a chill. Pumpkins didn’t rot so fast there. Trick-or-treaters had to beef up their layers sometimes -- unlike the costumes he’s seen in Florida. Kids in tank tops and half-masks because anything else is suffocating in the heat, even after dark, face paint smeared through with sweat. 

Michael should be drinking hot cider and getting ready for a raucous party and bundling up against the Jersey cold -- not sweating his ass off and questioning his capacity for love and preparing to work a double shift at a college bar.

And yet. The twangy guitar in the first instrumental track on Geoff’s CD already has Michael feeling a little better. A little less unmoored out here in Orlando.

Florida has been his home for years now, after all. It doesn’t do anyone any good for him to go nostalgic for a place that’s too far away and a time that doesn’t exist any more. He’s got friends here. He’s carving out a little life for himself. He’s proud of his students and he likes his coworkers. 

And there’s Geoff. 

Even if he can’t define it. There **_is_** Geoff.

\---

By late afternoon, Michael is prepped. He’s ready. 

He’s worked sticky pomade into his hair until it’s sculpted into a perfect pompadour. His crisp white crew neck is tucked into equally crisp Levis. 

The temporary tattoos had taken a little more effort. The first time, he tries to spell out “ELVIS LIVES” across his knuckles -- but he quickly realizes that the minute you bring the thumb into the knuckle tattoo equation, things start looking way too damned complicated -- so instead he settles on the traditional “LOVE / HATE” combination. 

The little fake tattoo letters keep tearing as he cuts them out and he ends up sinking almost 40 minutes into the application process if you also count the time it takes Michael to hastily apply tattoos on the backs of his hands and halfway up his forearms. 

And then the last inspired touches: a faint greasepaint black eye, a big comb, a too-large (and empty) flask tucked into Michael’s pocket. 

When he finally slides into view in the mirror to practice his best “ _howdya_ _’ do, doll?”_ he’s pure, unadulterated, post-fight, post-show Geoff.

\---

He’s gotta admit: they’d done a nice job decorating and cleaning the Night Library. Every surface that isn’t covered with black, orange, green, and purple is shining and spotless. The decorations are equal parts chintzy retro Halloween doodads from Jack’s extensive collection and charmingly homemade decor courtesy of Lindsay. 

She’s straightening one of the three dozen or so construction paper chains when Michael walks in -- and there are already a few patrons mulling around even this early, twangy rockabilly music playing quietly. 

Because the **_whole_** night, Jack had informed Michael, was retro. No college indie music, no requests or remixes. Oldies or bust. Not that Michael minds. The more Tone Geoff shows that he’s worked through, the more he’s come to appreciate how upbeat and undeniably **_fun_** music from that era is. It beats the reverb-obsessed masturbatory Alt+J knockoffs they play on most weeknights.

Lindsay goes slack-jawed at her first sight of Michael in costume.

“Oh my GOD, Michael,” she says, almost dropping the paper chain. “Oh my **_God_**.”

“Is that a good ‘oh my God’ or --?” 

“Oh my **_GOD,_** ” she repeats, bringing a hand up to her carefully painted face. “He’s going to love it. Holy shit.” 

“He? -- It’s -- I mean it’s not --” 

“Oh my God, can you do the voice?” she demands, laughing. He frowns a little -- not unfriendly, just not used to getting a reaction out of anyone like this -- and suddenly he’s blushing. Christ, everyone was going to think he did this just to get Geoff’s attention -- 

“Come on, Michael, I **_know_** you can do the voice,” she begs, interrupting his already-spiraling anxiety. She squeezes his arm through the leather jacket. “Please?” 

“Well uh,” Michael says, hitching up his lip and dropping his voice. “I’m ah -- just ain’t sure ‘bout that, babydoll…”

Lindsay **_squeals_**.

“That is amazing,” she says through a smile. “This is the best. You’re putting me to shame right now.” She gestures at her own costume: head to toe black, a pair of cat ears, and a painstakingly painted face with an exaggerated cat eye. 

“C’mon Lindsay, you look great,” Michael says. And damn, does she ever. 

“OK but… say it in the voice, though,” she shoots back, grinning. 

“Aw doll,” he says, dropping back into the exaggerated imitation of an imitation. “You gotta know you’re a knockout. Gonna make me tell ‘ya some more ‘bout how you’re a perfect ten?” 

“Christ it’s uncanny,” Lindsay says after she recovers from laughing. 

“So what’s Jack?” Michael asks.

Lindsay almost snorts. 

“You’ll see.” 

And he does see -- quickly -- because Jack rounds the corner and his normally tall frame is made even taller by a pair of dangerous looking white pumps. 

“Holy shit,” Michael says as Jack’s heels click confidently towards them. 

“Oh my **_god,_** ” Jack says, smiling.

“Not you too,” Michael says, throwing up his hands and shaking his head. 

“That is **_perfect_** Michael,” Jack says, smiling.

“Are you… actually, I’m not even going to venture a guess,” Michael says. 

Lindsay and Jack both fix him with a raised eyebrow. 

“You… really can’t guess?” Lindsay says. 

Michael takes it in. Jack’s wearing a platinum blonde wig, dramatic false eyelashes, and an expertly applied red lip -- really offset by his neatly trimmed beard, too. White halter dress with a plunging neckline exposing some serious chest hair. Stockings and those killer pumps… 

“Bearded lady?” Michael asks. “Femme fatale? I don’t know Jack but you look damn good.” 

“Here -- “ Jack says, as if he’s going to give Michael a hint. He crooks his knees delicately together and bends forward, smiling, bringing one hand up to the side of his face as if embarrassed and pressing the other hand against the front of the dress.

“Oh -- shit -- Marilyn Monroe -- got it,” Michael says, laughing. “Y’know, I didn’t see the beauty mark at first. Really threw me off.”

“But now that you see it, right, you can’t unsee it,” Lindsay says. “It’s like a body double.” 

“Get Madam Tussaud on the phone,” Michael says, smiling. 

“You’re gonna make me blush,” Jack says in his best breathy Marilyn impression -- and the three of them dissolve into laughter. 

\---

They get to work, all in costume, and time rolls by quickly in the festive atmosphere.

By five, business is picking up quick -- people streaming in, getting started on their first drinks of the night. Lindsay and Michael stay hip to hip, taking orders and pocketing tips in a steady rhythm. It’s fun and it feels good to have everyone excited, most people dressed up or at least half-costumed. 

Yeah, he gets a few confused looks about the costume. But every time a regular recognizes him and says, “Hey! Tone Geoff!” Michael is pleased with himself. 

\---

There’s a lull around 6:30 and Lindsay pushes something bright green and wicked looking into his hand. He examines the frosty, unnatural looking shot and Lindsay holds up its twin in her own hand. Michael had noticed her serving the neon shot to a few of their regulars but hadn’t stopped to ask what it was.

“Bottoms up,” she says, smiling. 

“Not to be a narc, but we’re… not supposed to drink on the job?” 

There’s a hand on his shoulder then and he turns to see Marilyn-Jack towering over him. 

“Rules are a little, uh, **_relaxed_** on Halloween,” Jack says. “Just, y’know, hop into the kitchen and don’t do shots in front of patrons, yeah?”

Lindsay nods and turns on her heel. Michael follows through the doorway to the kitchen.

“What even **_is_** this?” Michael asks, smelling the shot. It almost looks like it’s glowing. 

“Witches’ Brew, duh,” she says. “It’s a Night Library Halloween tradition.”

“OK but it looks like antifreeze. What’s **_in_** it?”

“Best not to ask,” Lindsay says, clinking their glasses together and winking. They both throw back the shot -- which is actually smooth and sweet, like a distinctly adult jolly rancher. It packs a wallop though and Michael feels the buzz almost immediately. 

“Goddamn Lindsay,” Michael says. “Did I ever tell you you’re the best coworker? Because between the psychoanalysis and the mixed drinks, you’re the **_best coworker_**.” 

\--- 

The Witches’ Brew continues to flow, although the first shot is enough for Michael. 

He can’t help but laugh when he catches Matt and Jeremy throwing a few back in the kitchen -- Matt dressed like a bottle of ketchup and Jeremy as a squat jar of Grey Poupon. 

Everyone grows more animated as the condiment crew buses tables, Jack getting round after round of laughter and compliments on his getup, Lindsay and Michael tending bar -- and as the music gets turned up at some point to match the bar noise, Lindsay starts to dance a little as she serves, a furry tail swaying behind her, and Michael can’t help but to move a little too, swiveling in place as he pours, hitching his hip in an exaggerated imitation of Geoff. 

And yeah there had been a few times since he accepted the job that Michael had felt at ease -- but tonight, the staff of the Night Library feels like his family, and as he laughs with Lindsay, winks at patrons, smiles at the music, Michael feels the happiest he has since he landed at the unlikely little bar. 

\---

At 8, the band arrives.

In full costume.

Ray is the first through the door, toting a drum, dressed in jeans and a red hoodie -- and at first Michael is disappointed that Ray didn’t wear a costume. He’s not even as dressed up as he normally is for their performances.

But close on his heels is Ryan -- and it makes more sense at once because Ryan is sporting big gray ears, a nose painted black, and a frilly apron over his normal performance outfit. Little Red Riding **_Hood_** and the Big Bad Wolf -- of course -- and Michael snorts at the fact that they’d actually done a couples’ costume.

Gavin is the next one to come in from the back, toting an amp. He's dressed in a nice suit, white shirt, blue tie, with a big red, white, and blue pin on one lapel – and Michael is still trying to figure out his costume when he approaches the bar with Ray.

"Holy shit," Ray says through a laugh the minute he recognizes Michael's costume. 

"He's gonna flip, Michael," Gavin says, laughing too. 

"I can't believe you did a matching costume with Ryan," Michael says to Ray through a smile, already pouring him a coke. Jack is by Michael's side in an instant, leaning across the bar to receive a chaste kiss from Gavin. "Wouldn't have pinned you as the type willing to do a couples costume, Ray." 

"Hey, at least I'm in good company," Ray says, taking the drink and gesturing towards Gavin and Jack.

"I don't get it," Michael admits. 

"I'm JFK, boi," Gavin beams, pointing to the button on his jacket. Michael leans closer to peer at it, seeing now that it reads "ALL THE WAY WITH JFK." 

"Nice," Michael says, smiling at the image of Jack-Marilyn towering over Gavin-JFK. 

Michael starts to pour a cocktail for Gavin but his friend reaches across the counter to stop him.

"Oh – no booze for me yet, thanks," Gavin says. "I'll take a coke too." 

"Yeah?"

Ray heads back towards the stage where Ryan is setting up and Jack winks at Gavin before serving a waiting customer. 

"We've got three sets to do tonight," Gavin says. "If I get started now, I'll be useless by the time we shut this place down."

"Shit – you guys are playing through last call?" Michael asks. 

"It's Halloween, Michael," Gavin says, accepting the soft drink. "Best night of the whole year, innit? Gotta run before the boss throttles me – we're supposed to get on at 8:30." 

\---

For a tense ten minutes, Michael serves patrons in between staring at the back door. Geoff hasn't come inside yet. There's no sign of him. 

And if he's going to be weird about the fact that Michael has dressed up as him (which had begun to feel more and more like a mistake as the time for Geoff to arrive has gotten closer and closer) Michael would like to go ahead and get it over with. 

And if he's going to ask Michael out – and Michael **_knows_** Lindsay is going to keep him accountable on this one – he'd like to go ahead and say yes and get **_that_** over with. 

Finally, someone new slips in from the back – and Michael has a moment of vertigo when he realizes that the stranger he's staring at from the bar is **_Geoff_**. 

The man sees him immediately, smiling wide and heading straight to Michael, and Michael blinks hard. 

Geoff is clean-shaven. It looks **_bizarre_**. 

His face is so… **_clean._**

His normal wild hair has been worked through into a neat pile on the top of his head – and he's put something into it to give himself curls. His dark hair shines as he strides towards the bar.

And on top of that, he's got on black plastic glasses with thick frames, formal slacks and shined black shoes – and on top of it all, a ribbed, preppy goddamn sweater with a fisherman-style collar. 

By the time he arrives, Michael has worked it out.

"Buddy fuckin Holly," Michael says, laughing (and somewhere a few paces behind him, he can hear Jack say, **_"Kid recognizes Buddy Holly but not Marilyn Monroe, Christ,"_** under his breath). 

"Now that," Michael says, "is a weird goddamn transformation." 

Geoff raises an eyebrow at him. 

"Hopin' that's a compliment, darlin," Geoff says.

"It's a great costume," Michael says. "It's fuckin' weird to see you looking all clean cut, though." 

The only incongruous piece of the thing is the knuckle tattoos and dark patterns peeking out of the rolled sweater cuffs. 

"Now darlin' I'd heard through the grapevine that you had a crackerjack of a getup worked out in here," Geoff says, giving him a wolfish grin as he looks Michael up and down, sleepy blue eyes behind the think black glasses. "But I must confess, nobody warned me 'bout how good you'd look dressed up in all… "

And he trails off, his mouth going a little slack as he smiles. 

"Are you… You're at a loss for words!" Michael says. "I cannot fucking believe I'm finally seeing you not knowing what to say." 

Geoff chuckles deep in his chest and shrugs. 

"Oh, I wanna keep confabulatin' but **_doll_** ," Geoff says, shaking his head. "I do believe the sight of you like this is makin' me go a little tongue-tied." 

Michael straightens his leather jacket by the lapels, popping the collar, before shooting double finger-guns at Geoff. 

"S'pose that means I got your blessin' on the costume, big daddy?" Michael says in the goofy voice he'd been practicing all night. 

"Lord have mercy," Geoff breathes out as he makes the connection. "You're **_me?_** " 

Michael hitches his eyebrows.

"Yeah, nobody told you?"

"Oh doll – "

"I mean, like, the knuckle tattoos… you didn't… Yeah, I'm you," Michael says between a laugh. 

"Good golly," Geoff says, laying a hand over his heart. "Think I need a moment here…" 

"I hope it's not… I mean, I'm not making **_fun_** of you," Michael says. 

"You're too damn much, Michael," Geoff says – and Michael notes the lack of slang, the drop off of stupid pet names. "I love it." 

There's a loud "yo!" from the stage and they both look up to Ray glaring their way.

"Oh darlin'… Promise me you'll hold that thought?" 

He shoots a nervous glance over his shoulder towards the stage and Michael remembers suddenly that Geoff isn't just a patron or a friend – that he's here to do a real job (even if that job is acting ridiculous on stage). 

"Right, I should let you set up," Michael says, lapsing out of the accent. "Bourbon or a soft drink?" 

Geoff frowns at him. 

"Right, stupid question," Michael says. He scoops some ice into a tumbler and starts to pour a bourbon double. He should've known better than to think that Geoff would be into the same sort of moderation as Gavin.

When he passes the drink over, Geoff is gazing at him – and it sure is strange, seeing the same expressions on his face with the odd, unfamiliar detail of smooth skin and no scruff. He looks young for once and far less intimidating in the outfit, the glasses. 

Once he's had his fill of staring at Michael, he shakes his head and winks – and Michael realizes that he's been standing here like a moron, gazing right on back. When Geoff turns to make his way towards the stage, Michael realizes that whatever anxiety he'd worked himself into about seeing Geoff tonight had been utterly unfounded. With his mind made up to tell Geoff "yes" this time, seeing Geoff, talking to Geoff – it just puts him at ease.

\---

The bar is packed by 8:30 – and it feels like a hundred more people have pushed in at the last minute before the show starts. 

Lindsay, Jack, and Michael work nonstop to get drinks into hands and tabs started – and it's a relief, finally, when Ryan starts to tap on the drums, Ray starts noodling around on the bass, and Jack turns the house music off.

Patrons begin to gravitate towards the stage then, to leave the bar and let the bartenders catch up for a moment.

Gavin takes the stage and gets a light round of applause and a laugh as he salutes the audience and hooks the guitar strap over his shoulder. He turns to the other two men and gives a quiet count before they launch into a light instrumental number, warming the audience up, warming themselves up. It picks up after a minute and Ray and Gavin sway a little, Ryan bobbing his shaggy-eared head with each roll of the drums, Gavin stepping back and playing through a simple twinkling solo. 

And then as they begin to wrap up, Geoff takes the stage – and he's so different both in looks and demeanor that the audience doesn't know what to make of it at first. 

But he's apparently entirely committed to the Buddy Holly persona, slouching a little and smiling, acting friendly and nervous for the audience. After a minute, though, the band behind him winds down completely and Geoff gives nervous, awkward wave to the audience, pretending like he's someone who's not used to being in the spotlight – and the people watching respond with hooting and claps. 

"Ah, now that was a little tune called 'Black Widow' by Link Wray and the Wraymen – aren't the boys great, ladies and gentlemen?" Geoff says softly into the mic – and **_fuck_** , Michael and Lindsay are laughing hard behind the bar because Geoff's normal accent is 99% gone as he imitates Buddy Holly. 

Geoff can barely work his mouth around the unaccented English, clipping the ends of each word, pronouncing each syllable carefully. Not everyone understands how funny it is to hear Geoff talk like a normal human being, but the regulars who had seen many a Tone Geoff show are laughing just as hard as Michael and Lindsay. 

And Ray is **_dying_** – even though he's not  mic'd, Michael can hear Ray's abrupt shotgun laugh from the bar. 

"We'd like to welcome you tonight to the Night Library – quite an establishment, isn't it?" Geoff says, gesturing around. The accent (or lack thereof) is **_killing_** Ray and the man's laughter is egging Geoff on as he sways, dressed like such a nerd, Michael thinks, but so very dedicated to his character. 

"We'll be playing all night – or as long as you'll have us!" he says, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We hope you, ah, cool cats'll just… enjoy the show." 

He covers the mic to clear his throat and applause rolls through the audience again. 

"So is the Night Library ready to rock and roll?" Geoff asks mildly, quietly.

The audience cheers in response. 

"Are you fellas ready to rock and roll?" he asks, turning to the band. Each man makes a flourish on his respective instrument in response, everyone amped up now and ready to play for real.

"Bartenders, I sure hope you're ready to rock and roll?" Geoff asks, peering through the glasses towards the bar. Michael laughs and Lindsay whoops at the top of her lungs. 

"Well," Geoff says, mild, expressionless. He adjusts the collar of his preppy sweater and shakes out his hands. "I know **_I'm_** ready." 

And then suddenly his posture picks up, he steps to the mic, and the night starts.

"Ready!" he sings, with a voice gone suddenly low and gravely, and Ryan hits the drums hard. "Set!" – another beat. "Go, man go!" – and at that the drums kick in steadily and the other two men are playing their instruments and everything is alive and moving as Geoff bends at the knee with each beat and sings with a rough, blues-y voice into the mic.

"I got a guy that I love so! I'm-a ready – ready, ready Teddy – I'm-a ready – ready, ready Teddy –" and the crowd is instantly dancing, no hesitation, like Michael's never seen, like each of them had just been waiting for permission to start moving.

"All the flat top cats and the dungaree dolls," Geoff sings quickly, barely keeping up with the rolling music behind him, "are headed to Jack's bar for a sock hop ball!"

Lindsay laughs and sways beside Michael as they both struggle to make out the little flourishes Geoff has added to the lyrics.

"The joint is really jumpin', Gavin's goin wild," he sings, bobbing his head. "The music really sends me – I dig their crazy styles! I'm-a ready!" 

They bounce through another chorus and onto the next verse and everyone has forgotten the bar behind them for a moment as they dance along through the instrumental bridge.

"Oh well I'm goin' to the bar-top, pick up my sweetie pie," Geoff sings, and Michael **_thinks_** the man winks at him from the stage but there's too much of a glare on his big glasses. "He's my  rock'n'roll baby, he's the apple of my eye – I'm ready!"

And when the band finally hits the last notes of the song, people are clapping, hollering, and it seems like everyone in the whole place is laughing. Michael's never seen a crowd quite like this – and he loves it for them, for the four men who he'd watched practice, who he knew actually put enormous effort into always learning new material, always riffing on what they already knew. 

This is the type of crowd they deserve at **_every_** show, Michael thinks. And suddenly he understands why Halloween is such a big deal for everyone at the Night Library.

\---

The first set is mostly Buddy Holly songs – which makes sense given Geoff's getup. He riffs stiffly with the audience between songs, obviously enjoying the starched yet soft-spoken persona. 

And it turns out that this first set is almost entirely meant for the staff.

Geoff shoehorns a song in for just about everyone at the bar: replacing "Peggy Sue" with "Lindsay Lou" ("pret-ty, pret-ty, pret-ty, pret-ty Lindsay Lou, oh ho Lind-say – my ah Lindsay Lou ah hoo ah hoo hoo"), throwing Ryan's name in place of "baby" for the song "You're So Square" ("you don't like rockin music, you don't like crazy bands – you just wanna go to the movie show and sit there holdin' hands – you're so square, Ryan, I don't care"), throwing in Gavin Free handily in place of Ollie Vee for "Rock Around With Ollie Vee" and not so handily replacing "baby" with "Jack-y" in "Reminiscing."

Even Little J gets a song, Geoff throwing "Jeremy" in place of "Bo Diddley," and they hit the classic "Runaround Ray" towards the end of the set, even though it's not a Buddy Holly song. 

Michael can tell then that they're winding down – and he tries not to be hurt that he didn't get a song. But, well… Geoff dedicates half the love songs they sing to Michael anyway. It's dumb that he would – 

"The boys and I are about to take a break, ladies and gentlemen," Geoff says as they start to wrap up. "But we'll be back for another round soon. So how about one last song to cap it off?"

The audience cheers and Ray starts plucking a simple bass line. 

"This one is dedicated to all you heartsick cats out there," Geoff says as Gavin begins in on the tune and Ryan picks up the beat. 

"Well, I aint nothin' but a man in love," Geoff sings in a nasally voice. "I ain't nothing but a man in love – the girls they say I'm their only one… They say I'm a modern Don Juan." – and he bucks his hips a little to punctuate the line.

Michael snorts and ignores the fact that he can't believe Geoff didn't do a single song for him in the first set. It's stupid, he tells himself. He is **_not_** upset though. Definitely not.

"Well there ain't but one thing puzzling' me," Geoff continues, shaking his head as he sings. "I got a guy and he can't see that I want to make him mine – well he thinks I'm just handin' him a line." 

**_ Oh _ ** , Michael thinks.

"Oh, I love him so, I'll never ever let him go-o-hoh," he sings, returning now to the gentle chorus. "I ain't nothing but a man in love."

\---

Michael feels more than a little bad when the band closes the first set and they retreat out back. He's so used to Geoff coming to harass him after a set that it just feels wrong not to get to talk to him – and Geoff had closed on a song that made Michael feel like a complete asshole. 

He doesn't think Geoff's attention is false – at least not anymore, not like the song put it. None of the spurned advances had been **_Geoff's_** fault. But now that Michael thinks about it, it must've felt that way the whole time. 

And as he struggles to keep beer glasses full, Michael finds himself feeling worse and worse. He'd really put Geoff through a lot, hadn't he? Without any explanation. He hadn't thought about it as rejection – but Lindsay was right. It would've been hell on someone's self esteem to get shot down again and again. 

Once the wave of customers is tended to, Lindsay is there laying a hand on his shoulder and offering a noxious green shot. 

"It'll cure what ails you," she says, smiling. She'd obviously noticed how his mood had soured after the set. They retreat for a minute to knock one back – and the buzz hits Michael differently this time. He feels like he's got more energy suddenly and he's abruptly done with his pity party.

Jack sends Michael out back with a tray full of refreshments after a few minutes: soft drinks, bottles of water, a bourbon for Geoff, a few beers just in case, and three of Lindsay's signature Witches' Brew shots. The green drink has been selling **_fast_** all night. 

Michael balances the tray as he navigates between patrons, finally pushing out into the clammy air. 

Ray, Ryan, Gavin, and Geoff are propped back in a circle of folding chairs set up in an empty parking spot by Ryan's van – laughing hard at something Ray has just said – and Geoff is talking excitedly, his back to Michael. 

It's a relief, Michael realizes, to hear his normal Southern drawl. 

"Ya'll fellas work up a thirst?" Michael asks loudly, doing his best impression. 

Geoff is up out of the chair immediately, moving to take the tray from Michael as if serving drinks weren't his actual job. He's stripped out of the heavy sweater, exposing the thick tattoo sleeves, and the fake glasses are pushed up to the crown of his head – and even without any facial hair, Geoff looks much more like himself as he takes the tray and maneuvers it around to each band member. 

"Well you're a real sweet soul to make sure we stay fully lubricated and libated back out here," Geoff says, gesturing for Michael to take a folding chair and sit. "Gonna take a little break with us before you shake a leg back to work?" 

Michael considers it. Jack hadn't told him to take a break but they had things handled at the bar. 

"Two minutes," Michael says – and Geoff smiles wide at him, squeezing his shoulder. 

"That's what I like to hear, now," Geoff says. "Take a load off, pumpkin, I bet your dogs are barkin'." 

"Pumpkin?" Michael says, unfolding a chair. 

"Seasonal," Ryan says, hitching up his diet coke as if in a toast. "Good job keeping things relevant, Geoff." 

"I try," Geoff says, bowing as he takes the seat next to Michael. 

Michael reaches for one of the beers. 

"If I start this, you'll finish it for me, Gav?" he asks. 

"Of course," Gavin says through a smile. 

"Oh no sugar – Jack's got you drinkin' on the job?" Geoff asks, a grin spreading across his face. Michael nods. "That's precisely the kinda questionable judgment I like the best. And shucks – three suspicious shots for three suspicious characters."

He gestures to the tray. 

"I can't – I **_just_** –" 

"Ah, boi, it's mostly syrup," Gavin says, picking up one of the shots. 

"I seriously doubt that," Michael says. 

"I'd urge you not to do anything too seriously on a lovely night such as this, babydoll," Geoff says, slinging an arm across Michael's shoulder. Even though it's hot out and the leather jacket has Michael sweating, the contact feels reassuring, the closeness, their legs pressed together and Geoff acting fond, even after Michael had been such an ass to him that morning.

"Yeah, fuck it," Michael says – and Gavin and Geoff cheer while Ray and Ryan shake their heads. 

"If I should stumble out this bar," Geoff recites as they hoist the shots into the air, "I pray this night is worth the scar!"

They all grimace, laughing at each other once the liquid has disappeared down their throats. 

"OK, ok, I should get back – you fuckers are trouble," Michael says, shrugging out from under Geoff's arm. 

"Well let me walk you to your door, sweetheart," Geoff offers. Michael puffs a laugh and rolls his eyes. The door is 10 feet away and three steps up. 

"Yeah, quite a date we had in the back parking lot just now," Michael says as they step up. He leans against the rail and turns to Geoff. 

"Best date I've **_ever_** been on, bright eyes," Geoff says – and the alcohol is really working on both of them now. "Even got you home before curfew. When can I see you again?" 

"Oh, I was thinking… around 10 o'clock," Michael says, laughing a little – and his laugh is joined by Geoff's closed-mouth chuckle. 

Geoff leans in a little.

"No goodnight kiss, I take it," Geoff says. 

"Geoff, please," Michael says, putting a hand in the center of Geoff's chest – not meaning to appreciate the cleft of muscles and the soft give through the thin shirt but doing so anyway in spite of himself. "A kiss on the first date? What kinda guy do you think I am?" 

Geoff nods seriously, smiling. 

"Now doll you are absolutely right," Geoff says. "Don't know where my head was quite at with that. That second date though… well, bets are off." 

He winks at Michael. 

There's something so stupid and familiar about the exchange and Michael's heart is still beating hard as he makes his way back to work. He hopes Geoff will ask for a date again soon. He's never been so ready to say yes.

\---

Things don't go south until the second set of the night.


	2. I Put a Spell on You

"Witches, warlocks, and our undead friends who are off the binary – welcome to the Night Library," Geoff says, swiveling with the microphone as Gavin picks a little shimmering tune.

The crowd for their second set of the night is even bigger than the first, and people had streamed in from the street as the 10:30 showtime got nearer and nearer. Michael and Lindsay had been joined at the bar by Jack with Matt serving soft drinks as fast as he could and Jeremy hipping through the crowd to bus tables like a madman.

Even after the two back-to-back shots of Lindsay's wicked concoction there after the first set, Michael had sobered up quickly, chugging water and sweating inside his leather jacket. He'd hoped at first that Geoff would come in and sit at the bar between sets – but any part of him that thought he'd have enough time to stop and talk to the man had given up by 9 when the bar felt like it was suddenly at capacity and everyone wanted a drink at once.

Geoff had found his way inside eventually, but he hadn't bothered with trying to find a seat at the bar. Michael had managed to pick him out in the crowd a few times, watching patrons pushing drinks they'd bought for him into Geoff's hands.

It seemed like every half hour or so he'd hear a cheer go up from some corner of the bar and Michael would look over only to see a group taking a shot of the green drink of the night with Geoff.

But the crowd hadn't stopped – and Michael had lost track of Geoff in the sea of people. As the bar staff rake in tips hand over fist, Micahel just hopes the fire marshal took the night off. There's **_no way_** the amount of people in this building right now is legal.

And things **_don't_** let up when Tone Geoff starts its second set of the night.

Geoff has abandoned the Buddy Holly act – though not the costume – as he takes the stage for the second time. Michael can tell at once that the second set is going to be 100% Geoff.

He's gone a little ragged around the edges, the once-neat pile of curls on top of his head pushing out in ten different directions now, his voice a little rough and a little too loud, and Michael can guess that it's equal parts exhaustion and alcohol. It can't be easy to do two shows in one night (and Michael wonders, idly, how the fuck they're going to manage a **_third_** show at midnight) – but the booze everyone had been plying him with certainly wasn't helping either.

And Christ – Michael realizes: Geoff had basically been drinking since 10 that morning thanks to Michael and his free whiskey.

"Now as we are wont to do on this yearly evening of macabre delights, my associates and I have put our collective talents together, ruminating for weeks on what tunes we ought to deliver in a very special Halloween set for you ghouls this evening," Geoff says – and holy shit, if Geoff is verbose when he's sober, Michael's not sure if there's even a real word for what he is when he's drunk.

"So get a firm grip on those pointy hats, if your shoes ain't for dancing, kindly kick 'em off, and hey –" Geoff says with a dramatic pause and twist of the hip. "Don't forget to tip your lovely bartenders tonight, woncha?"

He winks unmistakably towards the bar and the band behind him picks up immediately.

"You look like an angel," he croons – and Gavin and Ray flank him close, singing into his mic, echoing each lyric. "Walk like an angel… Talk like an angel…"

And then the three of them sing louder in sync now: "But I got wise…"

And everyone in the crowd knows the song, is waiting for it to start rocking, and Gavin and Ray and Ryan pluck up as they prepare for the titular line, the real tune of the song – and as Geoff sings "You're the devil in disguise," the whole place feels like it explodes between the band and the patrons dancing and the crowd singing around.

The energy propels Geoff into theatrics as he grabs the mic from the stand, dancing across the stage in an exaggerated Elvis impression as he drops his voice to vocalize through the humming of the chorus.

"You fooled me with your kisses – you cheated and you schemed!" he sings. "Heaven knows how you lied to me. You're not the way you seem!"

And there's a dramatic pause in the music and Ray and Gavin hold fingers up, hushing the audience as they return to the soft repeated verse. The three of them sway together in the middle of the stage.

It goes back and forth like that through the whole song, from the sweet and quiet verses to the rollicking chorus. The band shoehorns a longer guitar solo into the middle of the song and Geoff gets the audience clapping with the beat as Gavin shreds through a complicated section. Ray is laughing and shaking his head.

Michael wants nothing more than to stop and watch them – but the patrons keep on coming to get served and he can't let himself get distracted for too long.

"Christ, this is like a marathon," Michael says, raising his voice to be heard.

"Told ya," Linsay says with a wink. "Halloween is nothing to be trifled with."

Michael fills a monster order of shots and adds it to the tab of a regular while the song winds down and Geoff gives his best "thank you – thankyaverymuch" to the shouting audience.

Michael looks up in time to see a woman pass a glass of beer to him up on the stage. Geoff winks at the woman and tilts the glass back – and the minute the glass touches his lips, the audience is clamoring, chanting for him to drain the beer in one go. And forever a showman, Geoff does just that while Ryan hits a drumroll in the background. Geoff holds up the empty glass to a round of cheering.

The rush at the bar keeps Michael distracted though as the men chew through the set. It feels faster than any other set, but it's just Michael's weariness, the steady stream of orders and the line of patrons that never seems to die down.

He faintly recognizes the funky guitar pattern of "Spooky" – and when Geoff hits the first few lines ("In the cool of the evenin' when everything is getting' kinda groovy…") he resents the fact that he's working because all he wants to know is what stupid expressions Geoff is making on stage.

Lindsay disappears for a minute to make more of the Witches' Brew special shots and Michael and Jack start to struggle in her absence to keep their heads above water. Somewhere up on stage, the band has broken into "That Old Black Magic."

Michael loses track of time, running credit cards and pulling beers as fast as he can – and even his hands are aching now. Lindsay comes back with two fresh bottles of the green liquor and they work on clearing out the backlog of people in line, both of them moving as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Michael can't help but look up, though, when he hears Gavin's voice through the mic rather than Geoff's. There's a steady guitar riff behind him as he speaks in his best spooky voice.

"It's astounding… time is fleeting… **_madness_** takes its toll," Gavin says.

Lindsay and Michael must recognize the song at exactly the same moment because they make eye contact and Lindsay mouths "oh my GOD" to him. The crowd has a similar reaction – and thank Christ for that because suddenly everyone is a little more interested in dancing than getting drinks.

"Listen closely," Gavin says.

"Not for very much longer," Ray cuts in, completely deadpan.

"I've got to… keep control…" Gavin says – and then Ryan kicks in with a complicated drum piece and Gavin lets loose with his best dry rock and roll vocals. "I remember! Doing the Time Warrrrp!"

The crowd **_loses it_** and Michael and Lindsay are laughing hard there behind the bar.

"I remember! Drinking!" Gavin announces, his voice full of gravel, his accent momentarily gone. "The blackness would hit me!"

And Ray joins him for the next line, still deadpan but louder now: "And the void would be calling!"

And then they tilt the mic down and towards the audience, which responds at the top of their lungs: "Let's! Do! The Time Warp again!"

"It's just a jump to the left," Ryan says in his normal speaking voice – and Michael laughs a little too hard – he didn't realize they had even mic'd him up for this and he's **_never_** done vocals before.

"And then a step to the riiiight," the audience responds.

"You put your hands on your hips," Ryan says.

"You bring your knees in tiiight," the audience calls.

And then Gavin's back to take over: "But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you isa-ee-yaay-ee-yaay-ee-yaaaaane – let's do the Time Warp again!"

"It's so dreamy," Ray says in his total deadpan. "Oh fantasy. Free me."

They stay in the same parts throughout, the audience cheering them along. Geoff only grabs the mic to take over the vocals for Columbia's part of the song, and the crowd really flips as he starts to sing in a squeaky falsetto as he hitches his shoulders in time with the beat.

"Well I was walkin' down the street just-a havin a think," he sings, not even straining to hit the notes. "When a snake of a guy gave me an evil wink!"

Everyone is hooting at cheering as he squeaks through the verse.

"He shook-a me up, he took me by surprise," Geoff continues, his voice cracking dramatically. "He had a Honda Fit and the devil's eyes!"

Lindsay socks Michael in the arm at the line and Michael just shakes his head, his cheeks hurting from smiling so hard.

They go through the whole song like that with the type of flare usual reserved for a musical theatre troupe, and Michael's coughing by the end from laughing so hard – both at the band, at Geoff demonstrating the goddamned dance moves with a drink in his hand, and at Lindsay and Jack, who insist on doing the fucking Time Warp behind the bar.

The band runs through the chorus another three times just because the audience is having so much fun – and by the time the song is over, the bar feels like it's 110 degrees inside and everyone is breathing as hard as the band.

"I don't know about ya'll but, ah," Geoff breathes into the mic as the crowd claps, sounding more like Elvis than ever. "I need to bring it down a notch after that. Gonna need a breather. Round of applause for the boys, huh?"

He gestures to the band behind him. Ryan plays a rimshot as Gavin and Ray bow and smile. It looks from the bar like they're all having the time of their lives.

As people flock back to the bar for refills, the band launches into a slow, lurid cover of The Cramps' "I Was a Teenage Werewolf" and everyone seems to be catching their breath.

Well, everyone but Geoff.

Someone passes him a Witches' Brew and he throw it back like water, tossing the shot glass back down to the patron. And then it's time to sing: Geoff snarling into the mic, breathing ragged and completely in character – and even after claiming a need for a break, he's still performing as hard as Michael has ever seen him, shouting through the chorus and hitching his hips with the slow drumbeat.

It's bizarre to hear him singing covers of anything but the sort of 50s stuff they normally did – but the dude certainly has a range. Michael makes a mental note to ask sometime why they limit their normal Friday night material so much.

Michael catches up on serving as the band rolls through "The Killing Moon" and a particularly bizarre version of "The Monster Mash" that the audience loves. Geoff is sweating hard but still going at full speed, winking and making jokes in between sets.

"We got two more tunes for you black cats out there," Geoff says between gulps from a bottle of water. The audience groans at the reminder that the set will be over soon.

"Never fear, sweet things – we'll be back after midnight for a nightcap," Geoff says, shooting a finger gun at the audience. "But right now I want you to give a big old hand to our resident evil scientist, Mister Ryan Haywood."

And Ryan does his best wolf howl into the mic from the drums as Geoff steps aside, dragging the mic so that it sits in front of Ray and giving the audience a clear sightline to the drummer.

"Who's that I see walkin' in these woods?" Ryan half-sings, half-says into his mic. "Why, it's Little Red Riding Hood."

"Yo," Ray says into his mic, facing the audience but responding to Ryan.

"Hey there Little Red Riding Hood," Ryan sings.

"Hey," Ray says, smiling – and the audience is starting to get it now, can see Ryan's wolf ears and Ray's hoodie.

"You sure are lookin' good," Ryan sings with a snarl.

"Oh, uh," Ray says, sounding nervous.

"You're everything a big bad wolf could want," Ryan sings.

"Well that’s… nice I guess," Ray says as he plucks his bass.

"Listen to me!" Ryan cuts in. "Little Red Riding Hood –"

"Christ, I'm listening," Ray says.

"I don't think little big girls should –"

"OK well actually I'm – "

"Go walkin' in these spooky old woods alone," Ryan sings, and follows up with another wolf howl.

Geoff and Gavin join Ray at the mic to sing through the chorus with Ryan:

"What big eyes you have – the kind of eyes that drive wolves mad," they sing, Gavin harmonizing. "So just to see you don't get chased, I think I ought to walk with you for a ways."

"Oh well I mean, that's fine," Ray says, stepping forward as Gavin and Geoff drop back from the mic for a beat.

"What full lips you have," Ryan sings solo now.

"Really?" Ray says, dropping the bassline for a second to touch his lips. "I think they're more--"

"They're sure to lure someone bad," Ryan sings.

Michael misses the next line because a man in a Fred Flintstone costume is craning over the bar and waving. Exhausted, Michael had been zoning out, unable to keep his eyes off the stage.

"Yo!" the man says loudly. "You work here or just watchin the fuckin' show, Elvis?"

Michael suppresses an eye roll and quickly walks down to tend to the patron. His costume seems more like an excuse to go shirtless in public than a real attempt at anything funny.

"What can I get you?" Michael says.

"I need three of whatever this green shit is everyone is drinking," the man says, sliding back but keeping his well-muscled upper body propped across the bar top. Michael doesn't recognize him as a regular – but that's not unusual. Halloween had brought out a lot of new faces (and plenty of college students who didn't seem to 100% buy into the laid back and unpretentious vibe of the bar). Michael pours the three shots fast as Fred Flintstone drums his fingers on the bar top. Michael is eager to get the guy gone and out of his face.

"That'll be twelve," Michael says as he pushes the shots across the bar.

"Twelve fucking dollars?" the man says, hitching an eyebrow.

"Yep, it's our Halloween special. Four bucks a shot."

Michael isn't sure why the guy's giving him a hard time. For an Orlando bar, it's a halfway decent price.

"Christ, fuck this place," the man mutters loud enough for Michael to hear. He pulls out exact change, tosses it on the bar, and sweeps up the three shots. Michael frowns at the $12 as he puts it into the register. Not that he really **_expected_** a tip from someone like that.

By the time the exchange is done and the two people in line behind Fred Flintstone have been served, "Little Red Riding Hood" is wrapped up and the band is halfway through a Screamin' Jay Hawkins-inspired version of "I Put a Spell On You."

It's a fabulous cover with Geoff roaring and laughing through the verses at the top of his lungs – but by the time Michael is listening, he's more than a little worried about the guy's tortured vocal chords. He **_really_** hopes the third set they have planned is a little tamer.

"I love you! Oh – I love you! Anyhoooow," Geoff howls, eyes squeezed shut. "I don't care! If you don't! Want me! I'm yours!" – punctuating each line with a twist of his hips and a hitch of a shoulder. It's incongruous, watching the big, gruff voice coming out of someone wearing a meek Buddy Holly costume. Michael's never heard him sing like this either – more blues than rock and roll.

These are vocals that belong on the kind of record you might put on in the middle of the night, Michael thinks, when you're too tired and heartsick to do anything but feel sorry for yourself.

"I put a spell on you… because you're mine! Mine! Oh!" and the audience matches his intensity, cheering because they know it's the last song, because the manic, raucous energy of the man on stage is more than a little contagious, because everyone in the building seems to be two or three drinks deep by now at the very least.

"Hey," Michael says, making his way to Jack behind the bar. "I know this is really shit timing, but do you think I could take a break for, like, five minutes? My bladder is gonna burst."

"Michael, of course," Jack says, sounding concerned. "Have you taken a break **_at all_**?"

"I mean… not really," Michael says, shrugging. "We've been too busy!"

"There's never gonna be a good time, don't worry about that," Jack says. "You need to take a fifteen, ok?"

Michael nods and unties the apron from around his waist. Fifteen minutes not working feels like a wealth of time as his shift is now pushing nine hours without a real break. Maybe he'll even be able to catch a second alone with Geoff… make him drink some more water, maybe. Congratulate him on a killer show.

But first things first: Michael maneuvers in between a Mad Hatter and what might be a Kathy Bates (but it's tough to tell in the dim light) to get to the bathroom line.

Once he's in, he lingers probably a little too long in the one-room toilet, thankful for the relative quiet and privacy, enjoying the fact that he can just stand there and **_breathe_** for a second. Even though it's humid outside, he thinks that what he'd really like to do is go for a quick walk around the block. Geoff would probably go, if Michael asks him.

Finally the guilt at the bathroom line overtakes him and Michael quickly washes his swollen hands and exits. He steps out with 12 minutes left in his break and surveys the room.

Geoff is there, working through the crowd towards the bar. He's lost the Buddy Holly glasses somewhere along the line, looks a little unsteady on his feet. Geoff's had too much to drink, and the small buzz of anxiety at the back of Michael's skull pricks up for what feels like the hundredth time today. He'll **_definitely_** convince Geoff to drink some more water.

Geoff sees him, then, giving Michael a little wave and changing his course to meet him.

But as Michael strides towards Geoff in the crowd, someone catches him hard by the bicep, and the abrupt contact almost pulls Michael off his feet. He cries out – not because he's hurt, just because the contact takes him by surprise – and struggles to maintain his balance. The vice grip on his arm doesn't let up though.

It's the fucking Flintstone guy.

"Hey, I need another round of that green shit," he says, one arm propped on a high-boy table.

Michael twists away from him, breaking the man's grip on his arm. Now that there's not a bar between them, Michael realizes the guy has a good seven or eight of height inches on him. Not someone to pick a fight with – but Michael's temper is flaring nonetheless.

"I'm on break," Michael says, turning to resume his path. "You'll have to go to the bar."

"Excuse me kid?" the guy says – ridiculous, Michael thinks, he's probably fucking older than this asshole.

"Hard of hearing, dickhead? You have to go wait in line like everybody else," Michael snaps.

"You're gonna talk to me like that?" the guy snorts, and he takes Michael by the arm again.

"Take it up with my boss," Michael says, trying to twist out of his grip again. "Look for the seven foot tall Marilyn Monroe with a beard."

"This caveman botherin' you, dreamboat?"

Michael looks up – and shit, Geoff sure had made his way through the crowd fast as greased goddamned lightning as soon as he'd seen someone giving Michael a hard time.

"Don't worry about it, Geoff," Michael says, snatching his arm back finally and stepping out of the man's reach.

And maybe the kid in the Flintstone costume had been looking for a fight all night – or maybe there's something in his pea brain can could sense that Geoff has a hair-trigger temper… but he's posturing up immediately – and Geoff has come to blows over shit a lot smaller than this.

The undergrad who had snorted about a song in August.

The quarterback-looking motherfucker who had complained three weeks ago that the bar didn't have any TVs. 

The mile-wide asshole who had been rude in telling Jack to turn the music down in September.

No. It didn't take much. And all the men had left the bar with some signature injuries courtesy of the guy dressed like Elvis.

But there was always a game of cat and mouse when Michael had watched the fights begin. Geoff would smile and find something cutting to say, making sure to get his opponent good and fired up before suggesting that they both step out back. It's just part of who he is: the showmanship, the bravado. Geoff never seemed to get truly mad before the fights, either.

This night is clearly different.

It's like watching a car wreck for Michael: surreal and slow as syrup and completely out of his control.

Geoff doesn’t have anything funny to say tonight as he pushes his face up into the other man's – both of them sweating from the heat inside.

"This your boyfriend?" the patron asks through gritted teeth.

Something moves across Geoff's face like Michael's never seen before. A smile – but the meanest smile. Predatory and self-assured and dangerous as all get out.

"You mean Michael?" Geoff says, gesturing at Michael with his chin. "No sir. But I'll be pleased as punch to take your head off those shoulders for layin' a hand on him anyway."

Flintstone frowns and Michael watches the man's hand curl into a fist. People around them have noticed now that something is happening and Michael wonders if Jack can see what's going on. This is the part where Geoff usually suggests they step out back – because that's the rule, right? Jack lets him brawl because it keeps everyone in line, keeps Geoff happy – but he forces it out back and off the premises. Anything else could get Jack royally fucked, could get the band fired from their only regular gig.

And so as much as Michael doesn't want to see Geoff fight this guy tonight – a guy who looks to have about 50 pounds and three inches on Geoff, a guy who looks like the type to press charges if he walks away with a broken jaw, a guy who's only had half as much to drink tonight as Geoff has – as much as Michael doesn't want them to fight, he still waits for the relief of hearing Geoff suggest that the two of them move it to the back parking lot.

The moment doesn’t come.

Instead, the man brings up his curled fist and pretends to launch a short jab at Geoff – trying to make him flinch.

Geoff doesn't. He frowns and narrows his eyes and drops his neck, his head, hunching his shoulders into the familiar southpaw boxer's stance.

 **_No,_ ** Michael thinks – or is he saying the words out loud? **_Not in here!_**

He watches Geoff's fist fire off like a rocket, catching Flintstone hard in the jaw. The man stumbles back a step, drinks crashing off of the high boy table as he half-upends it, people fanning out away from the skirmish, and their piece of the bar floor goes quiet as a shockwave flows out, people turning around, craning for a look.

"Scram!" Geoff snaps at Michael. But like hell is Michael leaving.

The guy is punch drunk but he's not down for the count and he comes roaring back at Geoff – and Michael has seen fights like this before out behind the bar. Most brawls end after Geoff lands his first good punch, but sometimes the man will come back and the volley of blows will leave both of them bleeding. Geoff had always won. So far.

Geoff tries to duck, but the guy lands a hook straight into his eye – and Michael can tell the blow rocks him because even as Geoff stays hunched in on himself like a boxer, he's blinking hard and shaking his head, swaying a little on his feet.

Geoff answers the blow quickly, though, landing a jab to the guy's gut. It's more effective than the blow to the head, apparently, because Michael watches as the man clutches his torso and doubles over.

"Hey!"

There's a booming voice behind them and Michael recognizes it as Jack immediately. Thank God for Jack.

But Geoff ignores him, seeing an opportunity and apparently blind to everything else as he steps forward to catch the man on the temple. It's not the hardest punch, but it brings the man to his knees – and only then, with the threat apparently neutralized, does Geoff stop and acknowledge Jack.

"Jacky, I –" Geoff starts – and Michael sees now that he's bleeding, his cheek gashed where he'd taken the punch.

"Get out," Jack says, loud and cold.

"Jack," Michael starts, trying to step in, to do something.

"Michael, don't," Jack says, holding up a hand. "Geoff, you have to leave. Now."

"Jack – he's drunk, he can't drive –"

"And if he stays here we're going to have to file a police report," Jack says, and he's clearly more worried than angry. And Jack's right, Michael realizes.

"You're sober?" Jack asks. Michael nods. "Drive him somewhere, then. Just… get him the fuck out of here."

"Jack, the last set – " Geoff protests, leaning into Michael.

"It'll be instrumental," Jack says, and he has Geoff by the shoulders now, dragging him towards the front door. The crowd parts for them.

"What about my shift?" Michael says, trotting to keep up.

"We'll manage," Jack says.

And in another universe, it would be comical: the burly Marilyn Monroe tossing the tattooed Buddy Holly out into the street on his ass.

But in **_this_** universe, as Michael helps Geoff get steady on his feet in the humid, midnight air, there's no humor in it and Michael wonders how the hell the two of them have managed to botch the night so incredibly badly.

Both of them blink for a moment, the quiet of the night outside shocking compared with the raucous noises within. So. He's got to take Geoff home. It's certainly not the trajectory Michael had been planning on tonight.

"Come on," Michael says after a moment, helping to guide Geoff to his car. "I'll take you home."

"I sure took that south in a hurry," Geoff says, leaning on Michael. The car is just a few steps away.

" ** _We_** ," Michael corrects. "We sure did."

He hips Geoff off to lean up against the passenger side of the car. The street is dark and deserted, everything else closed down for the night, all of the Night Library patrons inside. Michael turns and brushes Geoff's hair from his forehead, inspecting him for any other injuries.

"Are you ok, Geoff?"

"Reckon I'm gonna have one hell of a shiner come November," Geoff says. "Other than that, I think I'm sound of mind and body."

And he's right – other than the cut and the swollen eye, he looks OK.

"Ego's gonna be bent and bruised once the band gets wind that I'm gone for the night, though," Geoff says.

He slumps down the side of the car a little bit, looking utterly forlorn, looking on past Michael – and there's so much wrapped up in this moment for Michael, so many pieces that shouldn't be there but suddenly are. Their night is over and they had ruined it and pissed Jack off and would probably piss the band off just because Michael couldn't stop himself from shooting off his mouth and Geoff couldn't keep his fists to himself.

The man slouching on his Honda right now is such a dumb, broken moron.

And so is Michael.

He's kissing Geoff before he knows what he's doing – and Geoff lets out the smallest shocked noise before he's kissing Michael back.

The world falls away as they press into each other, as Geoff wraps his arms around Michael, stroking a palm up his back, and Michael holds Geoff lightly by the hips. Everything in that moment is mouths and warmth and it's the stupidest time Michael could've possibly chosen to do this: with someone inside probably calling the cops as Michael appreciates the unfamiliar taste of whiskey on someone else's tongue. Michael had almost forgotten how it feels to be physically vulnerable with someone else.

It's the worst time imaginable to do this, Michael thinks, which means that it's the perfect time. It's as dumb and backwards as they are – and the timing and the kiss and the completely wrecked night at their backs is perfect, too.

It's midnight on Halloween and Michael is finally kissing Geoff and he would not change one minute of the night, of the weeks before it, of the months since they had met.

When they break, Geoff tangles his fingers into Michael's. His expression is so shocked it almost looks dismayed.

"Michael…"

"Come on," Michael interrupts. "I gotta take you home."

\---

Once they're buckled in and Michael is steering the car away from a potential law enforcement confrontation and towards the direction Geoff points Michael to take him home, an awkward silence bubbles between them.

"I'm sorry," Michael says finally.

"About **_what_** sugar?"

"That guy back there."

Geoff snorts a laugh.

"You were hardly the one pickin' a fight," Geoff says.

"I knew he was a dick – I just should've ignored him."

"Still, I think you can consider yourself absolved of sin, seein' as you didn't lay a hand on him," Geoff says.

The silence comes back.

"Gave me a fright," Geoff says, turning to look at Michael from the passenger seat. "At first I thought you were apologizin' for one hell of a first kiss."

Michael can't quite meet his eyes, but he smiles.

"Nah," Michael says. The conversation drops away again. What is Michael supposed to say?

Geoff sighs and turns the volume up on the stereo. It's the "Million Dollar Quartet" CD from before.

"Don't tell me you actually listen to this, doll," Geoff says.

"Yeah!" Michael says, a little defensively. "What, did you think I threw it away? I'm not a **_total_** asshole."

"Just didn't seem like you took much of a shining to it," Geoff says. "Seem to recall you readin' me the riot act 'bout cleanin' your car and slingin' some new tunes your way."

He's not wrong. The first time he saw Geoff after the man had slipped the CD into his car, Michael had cornered him, telling Geoff that he'd gone way overboard, insisting that they don't even know each other.

It had only been three weeks since Geoff fixed his car, since Michael had learned what the man does as a day job -- but it feels like ages.

So much had happened – Michael going to their band practice, helping them orchestrate Gavin's date with Jack. Shows and long conversations at the bar. The conversation they'd had this morning…

"Yeah," Michael says. "That was probably unfair."

"Hang a left here, darlin'," Geoff says, pointing. "Then I'm the third on the right – can't miss it."

\---                                                                                                                     

Geoff is surprisingly steady on his feet, only swaying slightly as he works at the lock to his condo.

The spot is nice – a gigantic historic home in Winter Park, lake-front and divided up into three separate condos. Michael isn’t sure what he expected, but the upscale neighborhood with a water view and perfect landscaping hadn’t exactly been what Michael had imagined Geoff going home to each day.

Once they push into the apartment, it makes more sense.

Everything is vintage, from the mid-century modern furniture to the large framed concert posters to the color choices for the paint. Michael can see a pink kitchen that practically **_glows_** and the sea of patterns in the pastel living room makes his head swim a little.

Once they're inside, Geoff strips off his heavy sweater and tosses it onto a chair with his keys, flicking on a large brass floor lamp before turning back to Michael – who has stopped just on the other side of the door. Geoff is back and close and before Michael thinks twice about it, Geoff is saying in a low voice, "Michael, wouldja stay here with me tonight?"

Michael is too tired to give the question much gravity. He's exhausted, in fact, with the adrenaline of the fight wearing off and the sheer work of the long shift settling into his bones. The thought of collapsing onto a cool couch is vastly more appealing than the half-hour drive home in the dark.

So Michael nods.

Geoff kisses him then, and Michael lets it happen.

They pick up where they left off in the parking lot.

It's better than the first kiss – or maybe it's just different – Michael with his back to the door, Geoff leaning into him, pressing hands on other side of Michael's torso inside of his jacket. The hands are steadying at first, and then they're pushing Michael's jacket off his shoulders, and Michael gladly sheds the garment, letting it fall to the floor. He's instantly more comfortable with the heavy thing removed, the air reaching his skin again, and he sighs into the kiss, tilting his head back to kiss into Geoff rougher.

It feels right.

It feels just how Michael had imagined a hundred or more times.

Almost like they'd done this before. Or maybe they'd just both been practicing it in their heads and dreams for weeks.

Geoff responds to Michael, worrying his lip a little between Geoff's teeth, and the change in pressure makes Michael give an inadvertent and breathy little moan. It's too much for Geoff, maybe, because he grinds Michael into the door – and now the trajectory seems to involve more than just their mouths.

Geoff maneuvers Michael by the hips off of the door and they walk clumsily back towards Geoff's couch, refusing to disengage. When the couch hits Michael's calves, their teeth bump together and they pull away, both of them laughing, a little breathless – and Geoff guides them back easily onto the couch – and Michael isn't thinking about much of anything now, just appreciating how it feels as his head hits a throw pillow, how his muscles so enjoy the feeling of Michael being off of his feet finally, with Geoff's weight above him, pressed down Michael's whole body as they join in another long kiss.

Even as his back and legs go relaxed, Michael's hands stay busy, moving from Geoff's hips to his back to his chest before finally settling on his shoulders as he hums into the kiss. The two of them fit together impossibly well and there's something like relief in Michael's stomach, in his chest, and without thinking about it, he rocks his hips up into Geoff.

Geoff breaks the kiss, drawing a sharp breath, and before Michael has time to think about it, Geoff rolls his hips to meet Michael's and they both groan a little.

As Geoff's mouth finds Michael's again, a tattooed hand moves between their bodies and to Michael's groin.

"Geoff –" Michael says, breaking the kiss – but Geoff doesn't stop. He gazes down, close to Michael's face, his hand still between them.

"If you won't let me date you then let me **_have_** you Michael – just once is all I ask. I just need to know all I'm  missin' out on."

And, no, Michael hadn't forgotten that Geoff is drunk – but until he slurs out the desperate sentences, Michael had certainly let his memory lapse regarding just **_how_** drunk Geoff is. There is a moment of vertigo then as he lays there under Geoff and Michael's brain begins to catch up with his body just as Geoff cups him through his jeans.

Michael jolts, shying sharply away from the touch and scooting back on the couch.

"Geoff, **_don't_** – "

"Christ I need you, Michael," Geoff pleads – moving his hand back to Michael's hip instead, leaning to kiss him again.

" ** _No_** ," Michael says – and maybe it's harsher than he means – because a part of him wants to just give in, and the firm 'no' is meant just as much for himself as it's meant for Geoff in that moment as he tries to anchor himself back into reality – because his body is responding too fast and his brain is reacting too slow – because Michael wants Geoff so badly right now that his heart aches and his body throbs – but if they're going to do this – **_when_** they're going to do this, Michael decides, it won't be drunken fumbling. It can't be like this.

It's Geoff's turn to shy away now, and as Michael sorts through the thoughts as far as he can, Geoff is scrambling back, getting off of Michael, realizing his misstep. He sits on the edge of the couch with his hands splayed across his face taking careful, deep breaths.

"I'm sorry, doll," he says – a little muffled "Good God I'm a moron. You should go, Michael. I'm so sorry."

Michael moves to sit next to Geoff, but the man leans away, dropping his hands.

"Geoff, it's not –" but something in the look on Geoff's face has Michael stopped in his tracks, no longer protesting. Geoff is shaking his head slowly as if trying to work out a complicated math equation, swallowing hard.

"Think I'm gonna be ill," he says softly – and Geoff vaults up from the couch, marching towards what Michael assumes must be his bathroom.

\---

Michael makes himself useful as Geoff empties the contents of his stomach somewhere else in the condo.

He pads through the rooms, getting ice and a glass of water. The kitchen is just as pink as it looked from the doorway. Even the fridge and the range are pink – because of course Geoff would've somehow found vintage appliances. The countertops are pink formica flicked with gold and silver, and the tiles are a bold black and white checkerboard. It makes Michael's eyes hurt even as it makes him feel more fond of the man puking a few rooms over.

Michael finds linens in a closet next and returns to the kitchen to wet a washcloth in cool water. He takes the glass and the washcloth and finds a bedroom, flicking on a squat light.

The bedroom, he notes, is the only place in the entire condo that isn't splashed with layers upon layers of vintage bullshit. Its walls are a cool gray, and there's a large window that must look out over the lake in the daytime. The bed is big and luxurious, a white comforter. Even as Michael sets up the supplies on Geoff's bedside table, there's some piece of him that melts at the sight of a big, comfortable looking bed.

Michael has been awake for **_so_** goddamned long.

\---

Michael isn't sure how long he dozes – doesn't even remember lying on his side there on the bed – but he wakes up with his face pressed into the soft comforter and it takes a second for him to orient himself in the strange room.

 **_Geoff's_ ** room, he realizes.

The condo is completely silent.

Michael finds him curled on the floor of the bathroom – which matches the tiles in the kitchen.

He stoops and lays a hand on the man's clammy shoulder. Geoff rolls to his back slowly and peers at Michael through barely-opened eyes.

"Told you to go home, sugar," Geoff says, his voice wrecked.

"Guess I got lost," Michael says, and he strokes a hand gently through Geoff's hair.

Geoff frowns.

"Come on," Michael says. "Let's get you up."

He helps Geoff off the floor – makes the man run some water and wash out his mouth before guiding him towards the bedroom.

"Don't you why you stuck around, darlin'," Geoff says. "'Specially not after that little performance." He lets himself fall into bed without undressing, laying on top of the comforter. Michael presses the washcloth and water into his hands, and Geoff takes a long gulp of the cool water.

"Why don't you lay down?" Michael asks, just wanting to get him into bed so they can both go to sleep for the night. They can talk through all of this in the morning. Geoff works the washcloth over his face and sighs.

"This ain't my final destination," Geoff says. "Least I can do is take the couch for the night. You oughta sleep in here."

"Geoff – come on, no," Michael protests. "I can sleep on the couch. You should stay in your own fucking bed, don't be a moron."

He's standing close to Geoff, a hand on his shoulder, casually affectionate in a way that he realizes might be out of place as Geoff frowns up at him.

"Y'asked me some questions this morning -- remember?" Geoff says. And Christ, it hardly feels like that conversation happened **_today_** but  yes, that had been this morning. "You were curious about what my big secret is?"

Michael isn't sure he wants the answer now that Geoff is here, drunk and ready to spill his guts.

"Well here it is, I guess. It's becomin' more evident at least," Geoff says, spreading out tattooed hands to gesture at nothing. "At the end of the day, this is all I am. Sad and drinkin' and hatin' myself with a load of good reasons, wishin' I had somebody and barkin' up the wrong tree at every turn."

Michael sighs – tries to find the right thing to say to all this.

"Used to be it was more abstract, hopin' I'd find a soul to tolerate me," Geoff says. "But since you walked into the scene, Michael, you know I've only had eyes for you."

"Geoff -- "

"Not now, kiddo, least you can do is let me finish. I know this ain't what you’re in the market for," he continues – and the words hit Michael like a blow, something dropping in the pit of his stomach. "I told myself maybe I'd leave you alone tonight, give you some space."

Christ, what a goddamned misunderstanding. Why couldn't Geoff have just asked him on a date **_one more fucking time?_**

"Now, whether you're lookin' for a lady you can settle down with or some fella who can provide for you -- that ain't none of my business -- I know that," Geoff rambles. "But I also know it's high time I left you to it."

"But Geoff -- "

"Come on now, gimme a few ticks, doll, to say my piece 'fore you let me down easy. You're awful cordial to let me hang on you this long. And I found quite a line to cross tonight. I know for sure now I ain't your scene -- and that's not your fault. But I look at Gavin sometimes – him and Jack, how it happened, Gavin singin' one pretty love song and now he's in Jack's arms for good. It's unfair to get jealous, ain't it? But how many love songs did I work my way through up there, tryin' to convince you into some situation you didn't want from square one, huh?"

"Geoff –"

"I just have to wonder sometimes: how much heartache do I gotta suffer through 'fore I find the one who's been waiting for **_me_**."

Finally he pauses.

"Geoff," Michael says seriously. "You finished?"

"Guess I could go on, sweetheart, but I know you're tired of hearin' it."

The man won't even look at him now. Michael sinks hard onto the bed beside him, finds Geoff's hand and laces their fingers together. Geoff is limp, lets Michael do whatever he wants. He's bracing himself for a final rejection, Michael realizes.

"Geoff -- you **_win_.** You won a long time ago," Michael says, squeezing his hand. "I fell for you ten times over. I'm sorry it took so long to say but… I really like you, Geoff, if you’re serious -- if it's not one big act?"

"Christ, Michael," Geoff says. He looks wide-eyed at Michael, like Michael has turned green or grown a second head. "Never was an act from day one."

"I was just… it's stupid!" Michael says, laughing now. "I was just waiting tonight for you to ask me one more time. I pushed you off on the couch because I don't… want it like that. You drunk and – … I want to go on a stupid fucking date with you. I already thought about what day I'm free – I fuckin'… I was so sure you'd ask me again, I was scheduling this shit out in my head, and the whole time I should've just asked **_you._** God it's dumb." 

"You're serious Michael?" Geoff says slowly.

"Yeah. I'm serious this time," Michael says. "I've been wanting to say yes and tonight I promised myself I was **_gonna_** ****say yes."

Geoff buckles at the knees and slides off the bed – and for a minute, Michael thinks he's going to be sick again. But instead, Geoff kneels and takes both of Michael's hands in his and looks up at him seriously.

"Michael Jones, my angel eyes, would give this humble fella the singular thrill of allowin' him to take you on a date?"

Michael rolls his eyes and smiles.

"Yeah Geoff – yes, definitely," Michael says.

"Oh darlin'," Geoff sighs. "You've made me the happiest man on God's green earth tonight."

Michael rolls his eyes harder.

"What day am I takin' you out," Geoff says, "if you don't mind my askin' – I mean, since you said you'd already penciled me in."

"Thursday. Will that work?"

"You think I have a potential scheduling conflict more monumental than a date with one Michael Jones, the apple of my eye?" Geoff asks, hitching an eyebrow. "That there's a laugh and a half, babydoll."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a playlist of all the songs in the second set, visit: http://8tracks.com/mightbeanasshole/the-second-set


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